


Nothing at all

by iwaasfairy



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Consensual Somnophilia, F/M, Incest, Liberal use of Niichan, Sibling Incest, Smut, big brother kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:34:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25525258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwaasfairy/pseuds/iwaasfairy
Summary: Being addicted to the wrong people is one thing. Being addicted to you is a whole other ballpark.
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 108





	Nothing at all

For seven months he had fasted, starved in place of the gluttonous monotony of living life like he had been up to that point; swallowed uselessly around nothing but air. And then you had jumped into his arms at the airport like you’d missed him more than life itself and with the first breath of your familiar smell of your face buried into the crook of his neck, his addiction had been as present as ever. If not more. 

He’d driven you both home in the old, banged up car that he’d given you as a parting gift, and listened to your soft voice in the darkness of the road. Not daring to turn to you fully, should the vindictive truth stuck to the roof of his mouth scare you away.

It's not like he doesn’t know that it’s wrong. Hajime has always been good at knowing what’s wrong and what’s right, the thoughts about you falling without doubt in the former. He knows, _he knows, he knows_ and yet; as he looks down on your face, pressed so close to his drumming heart where he carries you inside, allowing the guilt to chew him up and spit him out discarded, it doesn’t feel like it did when he was half a world away. It doesn’t feel dim, like grabby hands at his brain. More feverish than reason, ripping through his soul like a wet piece of paper.

With nails and teeth and ripping it’s ugly way to the surface like it had at every teenage pool party he had to fish your drenched, exhausted body to the side and you’d smile at him like he’d hung the moon and all of her companions high in the black abyss. Like he had when you’d fall asleep on his shoulder, mumbling in your sleep for him. Marked with streaks of warm, gushing sin like the blood that pumps through his arteries and colors his skin. You curl into a small ball when he puts you down on the unoccupied side of his bed, one that’s been abandoned and unused for months.

You let out a small whine. As much as he wishes to resist, habit comes faster than his brain can catch up and he’s already kneeling next to you, brushing your hair away from your face. You look so peaceful, undisturbed by the loud crunching of his brain where he sits. When he’s sure you’re not having a bad dream, he lets out a sigh. His face drops forward to allow it rest against your temple, nose pushed up against it in a futile attempt to calm his raging heart. He can’t look at you that long in the darkness, not when he’s so deprived it might split him in two and spill out at the seams.

But he presses a kiss to your hair, because in every way you have a hold over him. You still smell like the same shampoo, the same perfume. With your breathing calm and soft, he peels himself back enough to stare at your face again. Lashes dark, resembling flowers reaching for the sun. Lips dropped slightly open. The thoughts like a pack of wild dogs, unwilling to let go of him. Because it is written in big, bold letters as law that you are his, and he belongs to you irrevocably. Scared to chip or break you any further with his dirtied hands and worse ideas, he gets up from the floor to strip of the clothing of the long journey.

He should sleep on the couch, he knows, but desire is a terrible thing and he can’t think of being anywhere but near you now that he can finally hold you again. As much as he wishes it, he was never sober of you. In a shirt and his boxers, he slips into the free side of the bed, dipping it under his weight. Even in your sleep you seem to sense this, sense him, because you move back until the hard lines of his chest are against you. Your smaller form still fits as perfectly as it did when you much younger. With a shaky sigh, he allows himself to encase you in his arms, only this much and he convinces himself he’ll be sated. A prayer, a plea of forgiveness should any gods feel like hearing it now.

His body is slotted against you, around you. But you’re not contented with this closeness, never have been and it’s the thing Hajime always dreaded most about you when he started growing into his shape. The absolute love with which you touch him, take him, have him as yours entirely. Unknowing just _how much_ he wants you. He feels like a disgusting, deprived creature when the touch of you makes his breathing hitch. “Niichan,” you whisper for him, and he responds by pressing his face into the exposed part of your neck. Yes, he knows it is as wrong as it is to long for you like a lovesick fool. But the darkness of what’s wrong will never take precedence over the brightness that you cary. The devotion you have for him even in your sleep.

_Fuck._ He shuffles his hips away from you a bit, ignoring your disgruntled twitch to place his hand on your hip and ground you in place. “Shh,” he breathes to you, scared to raise the volume any higher should you wake. “Niichan is here. I’m here.” You wouldn’t hate him if you were to wake up, that’s what’s worst of all. You’ve always been most protective over your big brother, standing up for him despite never hearing him say the words aloud. He didn’t need it, towering over your tiny, nimble shape before he even reached middle school and never differing since, but you had stuck through it nevertheless.

Your big brother first, all others vying for your attention second. He’s selfish when it comes to you. But no, this is too much for him. You wiggle in his grasp like you’re desperate to connect at every point of your bodies and even though he prays that you’ll settle down, you don’t. You’re unrelenting, and at this point he’s afraid you’ll wake yourself up. So he gives in with a noise, a sigh or a soft moan, slotting his body along the entire length of yours closer, too close. The hand on your hip releases its grip to slide a little lower, stuttering when it glides over the warm expanse of your thigh.

Feather-light touches enough to make his brain short circuit. His body feverish. He almost passed out when you’d wrapped your legs around him in the hug at the airport, skirt riding up way too high for comfort. He thinks of that now, the little noise of approvement you had made when his hands came to support your butt, trying to steady his grip. His hand freezes instantly when you whimper, turning over. “Missed you, Haji—nii,” you push your lips together into the cutest pout, rolling until your face is in his chest, and you drape your leg to rest in between his ones. Hajime stays frozen for what feels like eternity, attempting to think of anything worth distracting him from the rise of your chest as it pushes up against him, but it’s a useless endeavor.

He swallows, having to stay exactly in place not to fall off the side of the bed. Your beaming, gentle body pressed to the hard ridges of his, breath on his throat and thigh pressed in between his legs. The urge to shove you away from him, to hide far from his shame, guilt, longing trickles down his veins like hot tar. So this is what torture feels like. His body doesn’t have anywhere to escape. It’s glued to your hips, your arms reaching up to cling to his shirt. As foolish as he knows it to be, there’s no fiber in his body that wants to be away from you. So he does what Hajime does best, and deflects to draw attention elsewhere.

Your big brother rests his lips on your face, peppering all the kisses that have piled up for months onto your face, your nose, cheeks, forehead. He picks up your hand and presses kisses to your fingertips, your palm, the inside of your wrist. For a moment he wonders that if he were to listen, your heartbeat might just be failing like his is. But that thought is gone when you shuffle, wiggling closer and pressing your leg higher in the process. He stops breathing. No, this is too much. He won’t survive tonight. “Hey, wake up,” he softly shakes your hand in his larger one, putting on his best big brother voice. It can’t be very convincing, but your eyes have yet to open so it’s a forgivable offense. Hajime knows he’s pink in the face, but there’s no other way to avoid death. Not when it comes to you.

“Can’t sleep ‘cause of m’fucked up timezones,” he explains, “but if you’re clinging to me like this, I can’t go.” He’s not even sure if you understand him, eyes still fluttering, thick with sleep. He smiles, unable to help it. Ever so gently, he starts prying his shirt out of your death grip. You shift towards his body at the disturbing motion, and it takes all of his willpower to ignore your leg as it presses up more against him again. You’re not doing it on purpose. You’re not. But his head is swirling with the pressure, so scared that if you get any closer at all you’ll finally know how fucked up he is. That can’t happen, it can’t— 

“Don’t leave me,” you say. It’s a hollow and fearful sound. He freezes. Hand on yours and long legs tangled with your smaller body and his face so close to yours that it’s impossible not to see how soft your lips look, how much they look like they’re made for him. He swears at himself thinking that for what feels like hours. But this isn’t about him anymore, not when you open your eyes and wetness clings to your lashes. Even in the complete darkness, you’re still the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. “Please don’t leave me again, Hajime nii.” You’re panicked, knuckles turning white from the strain. His heart breaks a little more at the sight.

He lifts a hand to brush his knuckles over your cheek, with the complete tenderness of touching something made of sand. Like you could crumble into nothing should he be too rough, too harsh, too— him. He knows he wasn’t fair to you when he left, barely saying goodbye for longer than a second and willing himself to ignore the absolute dread in his stomach, but he didn’t expect it to be like _this_. Like he was the sole reason for your suffering. “I’m so s-”

“I know you had to go,” you cut him off, pouting at the ceiling, “I know you had to, and I’m really proud of you.” You’re crying now, you can’t help it. His absolute mortification of being this close to you mixes with his urge to protect you, and he sits up to tug you into his arms despite knowing better. “I just don’t want you to forget about me,” you sniffle, hiding your face into his neck. Your lips are at his collarbones, pressing a gentle kiss there. His resolve crumbles with the second.

But in this he can’t be lenient. He’ll never allow you to think you’d fade from him. “Oi,” he says, wincing at the overly familiar tone. Doesn’t matter, really. He is familiar. He is _family_. That’s exactly why this closeness shouldn’t drive him crazy, yet it’s exactly the reason he diagnoses himself with insanity. “I am never, ever, going to forget you. You’re my everything, I know I don’t say it enough. I will never be able to think of anyone more than I think of you, every day.” He pulls his hands through your hair softly, hating the way you’re looking at him even now. With a reverence that should be reserved to no one man.

He hates how much he longs for you to stay right here. In his lap, brushing up against him in your cute panties and your flimsy shirt that leaves little to the imagination. He looks away from you, to glance at the covered window instead. “I don’t like saying it out loud because that is like speaking it into reality,” he confesses. You’re quiet, tears dried by just the sound of his voice. He’s quiet too.

But then you move, and at once he’s struck by lightning from heaven itself. His eyes still fluttering, struggling to understand. You’re kissing him, like you used to do when you wanted to comfort him before he got to middle school and he told you off for that exact thing. It’s not long, but so much longer than he would’ve asked for, it sets him alight. His brain frenzied, he feels you pull back. Hajime presses forward though, toppling into you like the broken thing he is and he grabs your face between his two palms to kiss you, really kiss you. You make a noise, opening your mouth when he pushes his entire body into you, shaking with how hard it aches. More, more, he kisses like he’s chasing life itself. Your lips are so soft, sweet against his and building him to a high. And you moan out something he can’t make out, sounding so small and sacred and he hates having tainted you with his filth.

It sends him away from you, his mouth ripped from yours to breathe. Heaving over on top of you, hands either side on his knees like the begging monster he is, he waits. Eyes shut so tightly it burns. He can’t bring himself to see the hatred on your face too, he already has too much of it himself. So he waits, for something to save his soul before it’s eaten away entirely by guilt.

Your hands come to cup his face. Of course that something is you. He always underestimated your goodness growing up, he probably still does now. But he still shakes his head in those soft palms, too fearful and too pained. You smile, he can hear it in your voice. “I love you, Hajime nii. Even if you say nothing at all.” You move under him to wrap your arms around his body, tugging him towards the bed. He could resist if he wanted to, he knows he could. He gives in to you each time though, always. And he allows you to press kisses on his lips until he finally cracks open his eyes to linger them where your heart is. He’s doused, drenched in shame and self-doubt, glancing for a sign from you.

But you smile. You rest your hand on the back of his head and smile at him and God— he swears his heart swells with love until it chokes him. “I know you love me. You have for a long time,” you say. You’re petting at his chest, hand pressed between your two bodies as you gaze at him, star-eyed. “And I’ve loved you for even longer.” You lift your head to press your lips over his ear. “It’s going to be okay, I’m never going anywhere. I love you, oniichan. I love you so much.”

“I can’t,” he mumbles, frowning so deep it might stay. “It’s wrong.” All the strength has long left his muscles. Even before he arrived at the airport today, he’d run himself ragged trying to save you. But in the low light of the room, pressed so close, you seem happy to belong to him. “I don’t want to be the thing that ruins you,” he is able to bring out, but it’s lost when you roll your body against his, clinging, asking.

“Please, niichan. I don’t want you to run away from me anymore.” You kiss him, and the whine in your throat is a plea. “I can’t pretend again, please don’t make me do it again.” Your face hovers so near him that it makes his head spin, your warmth and the last of your perfume digging into his weakened state.

He’s begging for the world to save him as much as you’re begging for him to drag you into the abyss. And after spending his entire lifetime with you, he should have known. You’d always have a power over him that no one else did. He kisses you. Tastes you, devours you, never letting go. He shoves your shirt up and over your head, littering you in all the built up love he’s spent too long collecting. The brunet presses his lips and wet tongue to the plush of your chest, groaning at the sheen it leaves behind on your skin. But he’s back to your lips soon enough, unable to get his fill. Maybe that’s his punishment for leaving you behind, he thinks, that he’ll never be entirely saturated of you.

Not that he won’t try. Hajime licks at the inside of your mouth and sucks on your tongue, moaning into you like you’re saving him of a world of pain. And you cling to him, so close. Your legs wrap around him to keep him right in place atop you. He rolls his hips into your doughy center, mouthing at your neck, your collarbones. He hovers his lips next to your head, his chest flush with yours. You can feel his heart as it bangs viciously against the bone cage. “You’re beautiful.” He grinds his hips into you with a pant. And then he lifts himself up onto his elbows so he can look at you with the most loving gaze you’ve ever seen flicker in his bright eyes, pressing two fingers at the seam of your mouth.

You open your lips for him and encase the digits with your tongue, sucking softly as he growls your name. He remembers the night that had scared him half a world away like it was only a few hours ago. You’d had too much alcohol, and he’d had too much frustrations running through his blood to control himself when Shittykawa had dropped you off, saying something about ‘taking better care of you than your big brother did’. It had snapped the last of his strings, and he’d never been so mad at you. Because deep down he feared more than anything being left behind in your shadow. 

You had forgiven him so quickly, like always. You did when he had his first kiss with a girl from his class, someone he played spin the bottle with. You did when he brushed off your concerns about his health regarding his volleyball, saying he knew himself best. You did when he kissed you after you’d first told him about your fears of going to university and that you felt alone and confused without him. You did when he left, too. Now he watches in fascination as you suckle at his fingers, dragging them out to wet your lips, your chest, down your body and into your panties. He’ll make it up to you. He will.

As a small drop of sweat rolls down his chest, you call out for the person you love most, in a million words how you express it best. Loud, vibrant, colorful. And Hajime… 

He loves you, always. Even saying nothing at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Listen, big brother hajime has been living in my brain rent free for the last month and I just had to write smt gentle for him before going back to my degenerate bullshit so,, I was feeling pretty emo when i was writing this and it shows ((: but I still hope you enjoyed it!! thank you so much for reading!


End file.
